


His First Drug

by accidentallyonpurpose



Series: The Young Life of Sherlock Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fighting, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, Mycroft takes care of Sherlock, Protective John, Teen Angst, Teen Sherlock, sherlock gets in a fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds his first drug in the form of fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is the second in my series. Hope you enjoy!

Roaring. That’s all Sherlock could hear as he shook his head, facing off with the boy across from him. His nose was clogged with quickly clotting blood, a thin trail dripping out of his nose and onto his top lip. Swiping his fist under his nose, Sherlock absently wiped his hand on his pant legs.  
They were surrounded by a tight-knit ring of students that formed blinders for Sherlock, helping him focus on his classmate Evan. The gathering was tucked behind the school building, hidden from any prying eyes.  
“I don’t see how hitting me will stop your mother from hitting you,” Sherlock said thickly around his split lip. A deadly silence fell as all the kids in the circle looked at Evan. Growling, he lunged at Sherlock and grabbed him by the shoulders, throwing him onto the ground. Landing on top of Sherlock, Evan wrapped his hands securely around Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s arms flailed uselessly, landing inconsequential blows on his opponent’s arms. Just as black was starting to crowd the edges of Sherlock’s vision, he got his hand around one of Evan’s wrists and dug his thumb into the soft spot on the underside of his wrist. He managed to rip one hand off his throat and flung it to the side, pushing Evan off him in the process.  
“You’re such a freak,” Evan shrieked as Sherlock quickly pushed up to his feet. Evan followed suit, his nails scraping along the concrete as he dragged himself up.  
“Hey!” came a voice from outside the circle, drawing everyone’s attention. “Get off him!” Sherlock only had a moment to notice a blonde head peaking through the gaps between people before his world went head-splittingly sideways.  
Dully he heard his name being called, followed by a sickening thud of flesh on flesh. The tangy taste of blood flooded his mouth and he distractedly ran his tongue over his teeth, clearing them of blood. The world flickered as he rapidly blinked, trying to clear the fog settling over his brain.  
“John?” he mumbled. He saw a pair of legs in front of his face bend down and he looked up, meeting John’s eyes.  
“Hey Sherlock,” John murmured. “You’re really beat up. We’ve gotta get you home, okay? You need to sit up.” John sounded worried. Squinting, Sherlock smiled at John. He found that John calmed down whenever Sherlock smiled. He had done a week-long experiment one summer to determine what would affect John’s mood.  
“Okay Sherlock, I see you’re smiling and I don’t know if that’s because you understand me or you’re really out of it, so I’m just gonna lift you up here.” John slid his arm behind Sherlock’s back and gently lifted him into a sitting position. “How are you doing, Sherlock?”  
“Yes, good,” Sherlock responded distantly.  
“Do you think you can stand up for me?”  
“For you,” Sherlock repeated, allowing himself to be maneuvered up and getting his feet under him.  
“There you go,” John encouraged, slinging Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and guiding him towards the front of the school. “I was wondering where you were all of last period, lucky for you school just ended so we can get you straight home without having to tell the principal what happened.” John continued to ramble as he guided Sherlock towards the front of the school and the waiting car. Holding Sherlock up with one arm, John wrestled the door open and managed to dump his best friend inside.  
“Hi Mycroft,” John chirped as he gently shoved Sherlock deeper into the back seat, worming his way in as well. He hoped that Mycroft would be too distracted with the road to notice the thin trail of blood snaking down Sherlock’s face. Unfortunately, Mycroft glanced in the rear-view mirror, doing a double-take as he noticed the blood running down Sherlock’s face.  
“What happened, and why wasn’t I informed?” Mycroft asked, forcing his voice to remain level as his heart rate picked up.  
“Um,” John started, looking to Sherlock for assistance but getting none. “Sherlock fell down?”  
“Is that a question or an answer?” Mycroft asked as he started pulling out of the schoolyard, knuckles white on the steering wheel.  
“An answer?” John asked uncertainly.  
“Would you like to try again?”  
“No thank you. I think I’ll let Sherlock answer.” John slouched back into his seat.  
“Sherlock? Anything to say?” Mycroft glanced at Sherlock in the mirror, noting how he was distractedly looking out the window.  
“The sky is very blue today.” Mycroft felt a stab of fear lance through his stomach as his unusually eloquent twelve-year-old brother said no more. He took one look at the goose egg forming on the side of Sherlock’s head and discreetly turned off their usual route, directing the car towards the hospital.  
“You were in a fight, Sherlock, weren’t you?”  
Sherlock took a moment to pull his thoughts together. “Mmmm. Evan. Called me a freak. Said some other things. So I said his mom hits him. Then he hit me.” Sherlock let a small chuckle slip past his lips. “He gets hit, he hits me.” He giggled again for no apparent reason.  
“Sherlock, what’s your full name?” Mycroft asked, alarm creeping into his voice.  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”  
“What is your dog’s name?”  
“Redbeard.”  
“What is my name?”  
“Mycroft Timothy Charles Holmes.” Sherlock’s answers put Mycroft more at ease, but he did not alter their course again. They were near the hospital now.  
“Where are we going?” John asked suddenly.  
“I’m taking him to the hospital,” Mycroft answered sternly, tone brooking no room for argument.  
“Okay, but we don’t need to tell the school, right?”  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Of course we do, John. This is a very serious matter that must be dealt with accordingly.”  
“But if you tell the school, Sherlock will get in trouble!” John cried despairingly.  
“Yes, but he was clearly injured and probably more severely than the other boy, which will be evidence enough of who ought to get in more trouble. It’s very noble of you to try to protect him John, but you don’t need to do that.”  
John was quiet for a moment. “I hit Evan too.” Mycroft didn’t have any time to respond as they had reached the hospital. He figured they could deal with that later. Efficiently finding a parking spot, Mycroft got out and threw the back door open, scooping Sherlock into his arms. John got out and quickly followed them into the emergency room, brows scrunched in worry.  
“Get off me,” Sherlock protested weakly, pushing uselessly at Mycroft’s shoulders.  
“Stop brother, I will not.”  
A quiet whine escaped Sherlock as he was jostled through the sliding doors and into the emergency room, where Mycroft stepped up to the counter.  
“My brother has been injured,” he told the nurse behind the desk. “Hits to the head at least twice, split lip, possible broken nose, and possible broken or bruised ribs.” The nurse looked at Sherlock’s thin form with pursed lips.  
“How did this happen?” she asked, voice and eyes sharp.  
“There was an incident at his school,” Mycroft explained.  
“At school? You’re sure?” the woman asked, eyes burrowing into Mycroft’s.  
“Yes ma’am, I promise this did not happen at home.”  
“Alright,” she said after another moment of contemplation. “If you’ll just sit over there, we’ll call you in a moment.” The three boys went to the rows of hard plastic chairs and Mycroft set Sherlock down in one before sitting beside him, John taking Sherlock’s other side. Pulling out his phone, Mycroft shot a text to Greg.  
In ER waiting with Sherlock. Care to join us?  
-MH  
Mycroft then sent another to his parents letting them know of the situation but telling them not to worry. His phone dinged just as he sent the last texts.  
OMG why are you in ER? I’ll be right there.  
Mycroft tapped out a quick reply.  
Sherlock was in a fight and sustained head injuries. I thought it best to have him checked out.  
-MH  
Just then Greg burst through the doors, spotting them and rushing over.  
“What happened?” he reiterated.  
“I just sent you a text,” Mycroft answered. “Sherlock was in a fight at school and sustained head injuries, among others. I thought it best if we came to have him checked out for any permanent or serious damages.”  
“Probably a good idea,” Greg affirmed.  
“Mr. Holmes?” the nurse called. “We’re ready for you.” Mycroft scooped Sherlock up again from the chair and carried him out of the waiting room.  
“So John,” Greg started, taking Sherlock’s vacated seat. “What happened?”  
“Well, I don’t know the whole thing,” John admitted after a momentary pause. “What happened was I couldn’t find Sherlock after last period, which he missed, so I went looking and I found a circle of kids at the back of the school and Sherlock was in the middle with this kid Evan and Evan was sitting on him and choking him and so I went in and punched Evan. I made sure he wasn’t gonna follow us then I got Sherlock to the car.” John let the story tumble out while he looked determinedly at his hands. “Am I gonna get in trouble?” he asked, finally looking Greg in the eyes.  
“Well,” Greg sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Hitting definitely isn’t always the answer. But I think, although you might have been able to handle the situation without violence, you did what you thought would get Sherlock out fastest, and that’s always a good thing.” Greg slung an arm over the back of John’s chair. “Where did you learn to punch, anyway?”  
“Harry taught me,” he admitted. Greg nodded, and the two waited in silence until Mycroft emerged from the examination room with a bandaged Sherlock following close behind.  
“A minor concussion,” Mycroft summed up, “along with cuts, scrapes, and a bruised rib.”  
Greg winced in sympathy. “Come one, let’s get you lads home. John, you’re sleeping over tonight?”  
“Yup!” The boys had taken to sleeping over at the Holmes’ residence every Friday night.  
“Then I think this calls for pizza and movies in bed,” Greg said with a wink at the two boys. The two boys cheered, John much more enthusiastically than Sherlock, who gave a weak smile.  
“Sherlock’s not allowed to sleep more than two hours at a time,” Mycroft told Greg. “It’ll be a long night for us tonight.”  
“Better that he has John beside him, though,” Greg answered back.  
“True enough, Gregory.” Mycroft squeezed Greg’s hand once. “Will you take care of pizza while I get the boys home?”  
“Of course,” Greg said, pecking Mycroft on the cheek. “I’ll meet you back there.”  
Mycroft waved as he tucked the two boys into the backseat, glad that he had someone like Greg to rely on.


	2. Fight in the park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, he gets in a fight in the park.

This time they were in the park. It started with two words.  
“Hey! Freak!” Sherlock felt his shoulder hunch forward as the word hit him in between the shoulder blades. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him as he heard two sets of footsteps thump on the ground, quickly approaching him.   
He had convinced John to collect dirt samples with him in the small copse of trees but was currently alone, having sent John down another path for a wide variety of samples. He knew if he could just find John, then maybe the two boys following behind him might be scared enough to run away.   
Continuing down the path in front of him he sped up a little, his long legs carrying him faster towards the direction John had disappeared to.  
“Oy!” he heard from behind him as the steps sped up even more. “What, you deaf too?” Sighing, Sherlock slowed until he came to an intersection of paths. Spinning on the spot, he faced the two boys.  
“Can I help you?”  
“Yeah, you can help me by telling me the answers to tomorrow’s science quiz.”  
Sherlock narrowed at his eyes at the boys, finally recognizing them from his class. They were the brutes of the class, communicating more often through physical force.   
“I don’t know the answers,” Sherlock said condescendingly. “I can’t see the future.”  
“But you sure can tell everyone’s secrets,” One of the boys said; Sherlock thought his name was Ralph.   
“Well if I can see them, certainly they’re not secrets.” Ralph’s hand curled into a fist at his side, and Sherlock absently noted that his pulse accelerated significantly, indicating he was about to attack. Sherlock braced himself.  
“Freaks like you don’t count,” the other boy said snidely from behind Ralph. Sherlock couldn’t remember his name.   
“So we’re considering intelligent people freaks now? Nothing new then,” Sherlock said, tucking his hands behind his back and staring coolly at the two boys.  
“You wanna say that closer to my face?” Ralph growled.  
“Not particularly. I’d rather keep my distance, if it’s all the same. Don’t want your stupidity catching.” It’s not that Sherlock wanted to get hit, not really. He just couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, wanting to prove that he was that much smarter, that he could always have the last word. And have the last word, he did.  
Ralph rushed him, breath blowing harshly out of his nose as he collided with Sherlock. They tumbled to the ground in a pile of limbs, Ralph’s elbow making sharp contact with Sherlock’s ribs. Disorientation set in for a moment before Sherlock got his bearings, bracing his hands on Ralph’s shoulders and giving a mighty shove. Ralph was shorter but wider than Sherlock, the added girth giving him weight and strength that Sherlock just didn’t have. Although Sherlock put all his weight into it, Ralph barely budged before harshly grabbing Sherlock by the lapel and punching him in the stomach. Sherlock couldn’t stop the vomit and bile that came rushing out of his mouth and onto Ralph’s shirt, staining it a milky white and leaving Sherlock hacking and coughing.  
“What the fuck?” Ralph shouted, backing away and looking down at his chest in disgust.   
“That’s what happens when you punch someone in the stomach,” Sherlock rasped around dry heaves. Gaining his breath back, Sherlock stumbled to his feet and faced Ralph. Without waiting any longer, he rushed at Ralph, aiming a right hook at his face. It caught him on the cheekbone, splitting the skin stretched over it and staggering him a couple steps to the side. Sherlock followed it up with a quick kick to the shin and stumbled back, unsure what to do next. He didn’t really have a desire to break of the Ralph’s bones, finding it a rather messy business. Ralph came at him with a haymaker that Sherlock dodged, slipping around Ralph and to his back. Ralph quickly stuck his foot out, tripping Sherlock as he passed by him and taking him back to the ground. There, he kicked Sherlock in the stomach and the ribs a few times, Sherlock jolting violently with each blow. At the next assault, Sherlock latched onto Ralph’s foot and yanked, tumbling Ralph and making him land on his damaged ribs. Sherlock shoved Ralph off him successfully, leaping up and wincing at the sharp twinge in his side. Ribs definitely at least bruised, possibly broken. As he was making the assessment, the other boy came at him and hooked his head into a headlock, taking Sherlock completely by surprise. Struggling, Sherlock grabbed at the arm slowly cutting off air flow to his brain and slapped futilely at the boy’s back and arm. Just as darkness crowding the edges of his vision started to creep inwards, he heard the thunder of footsteps behind him.   
“What the- for God’s sake.” A moment later the arm around him disappeared and he took a moment to regain his breath before looking up and seeing the other boy on the ground with a bloody nose, John towering over him.  
“About time,” Sherlock gasped painfully, looking up at John. John gave him a disapproving look before turning to their assailants.  
“Oi Ralph, Brian, get out of here, or you’ll have me to deal with, yeah?” The two boys looked up at him from the ground, indecision warring on their faces. John’s fists clenched at his side. “Or we can go a round.” The two boys looked at each other before scrambling up and running down the path John had presumably come from. “They got you again, huh?” John asked as he wandered over to Sherlock’s side, taking visual stock of Sherlock.   
“They can’t seem to resist me,” Sherlock joked drily.   
“I don’t see any damage on your face,” John said leadingly.  
“Yes, I think you’ll need to take a look at my ribs,” Sherlock admitted.  
“Let’s take stock before we go home then.” John led Sherlock to a bench placed on the side of the path. “Coat off.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but shrugged off the light jacket he was wearing, revealing a button up dress shirt beneath it. “Shirt too.” Sherlock set to unbuttoning his shirt, slowly revealing white skin marred with red and purple. John hissed sympathetically, pulling Sherlock’s hands away from his buttons and finishing the job for him. The shirt slid gracelessly off of Sherlock’s shoulders, pooling behind him on the bench. Rough calloused hands traced a light pattern over his ribs, tracing the red and purple already turning into ugly dark bruises and splotches across the creamy canvas. The light touches turned firmer, John probing and taking stock as gently as he could. “Definitely bruised,” he started, noticing when Sherlock jerked violently away from his hands. “Probably a broken one there, then,” he sighed. “Mycroft’s gonna know,” he informed Sherlock.  
“I am aware,” Sherlock sighed back. “May as well get it over with.” Quietly they got Sherlock’s coat on him and headed home, dirt samples forgotten.   
When they entered the house, they were greeted by Mycroft and Greg on the sofa, Greg watching football while Mycroft worked diligently on his computer.  
“Hello boys,” Greg crowed over the back of the couch. “Find any good dirt samples?” He craned his neck, looking fully at the two boys for the first time. “Wait- did you get into another fight?”  
“Yup,” Sherlock said indifferently, trying to play it off.  
“Bruised ribs, possibly broken. I also saw vomit on the other guys shirt, so probably a hit to the stomach that should be looked at,” John added.  
“And you?” Mycroft asked.  
“Lightly bruised knuckles. Unfortunately, I got there at the end of the fight and only had to deck the second guy.”  
“Sit down, both of you.” They sat side by side on the love seat in the living room. A look passed between Mycroft and Greg- they had been a couple for seven years now, and were at the point where they could have conversations purely through facial expression.   
Mycroft had already finished a university degree through an online program at an Ivy League school and was now commuting and telecommuting to his government job. He was the youngest to ever achieve his position at the age of twenty-two, a fact for which he was immensely proud. Greg meanwhile had secured himself a position with Scotland Yard and was now on his way to becoming Detective Inspector. He had moved into their house with the blessing of the Holmes’ parents, who were just happy to see their eldest son happy. They had become more absent but no less affectionate as the boys had grown, allowing them to self-govern.  
“This has to stop happening,” Mycroft said.  
“I don’t ask them to hit me,” Sherlock responded acerbically.  
“Maybe not. That does not change the fact that it keeps happening.” Mycroft and Sherlock stared at each other for a few moments, silently warring through facial expressions.   
“Let’s see the damage, then,” Greg interrupted when he realized neither brother was going to speak, crouching down in front of Sherlock and waiting patiently as he finished taking off his coat. “Jesus,” he breathed, taking in the bruises and blotches marring Sherlock’s ribs. He felt Mycroft’s hand descend on his shoulder and squeeze harshly, the only sign of outward distress he allowed to pass through his barrier. “Can you lift your arms up?” Sherlock tried, not getting past his shoulders before wincing and lowering them again. “That’s what I thought. We can probably just wrap them up here and let it heal on it’s own.”  
“That’s what I thought,” John affirmed.  
“Let’s get you upstairs and wrap you up,” Greg sighed, standing up and letting Sherlock go before him.  
“John, a moment,” Mycroft called before John could follow them.  
“Sure.” John stood and watched as Sherlock turned once to look over his shoulder at John before disappearing up the stairs. “What’s up?”  
“That’s the second time in as many weeks,” Mycroft stated. “And this has been happening more and more frequently of late. Do you know why?”  
“People are assholes?” John shrugged. “Not everyone appreciates Sherlock the way we do? Sometimes he says things he really shouldn’t?”  
Mycroft nodded his head. “You shouldn’t have to…” he petered off, gesturing towards the stairs Sherlock had just disappeared up.  
“No, probably not,” John agreed. “But that’s what friends are for. I don’t mind taking care of him at all. Really. And I know he’d do the same for me.”   
“Quite,” Mycroft allowed, laying his hand on John’s shoulder. Not knowing what else to say, he nodded at John.  
“I’m going to go see how they’re doing,” John said, turning out of Mycroft’s grip and climbing the stairs. Mycroft reflected for a moment on how he missed the gap-toothed five year old with no cares in the world that he had met seven years ago, and despaired at the fact that he couldn’t keep his two charges as care-free as he would like. Sighing, Mycroft climbed the stairs after John, glad that at least he and Greg could support them when they couldn’t protect them; he became all the more determined to protect them to the best of his abilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos and comment at your leisure!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to fight on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated in a while, but here's another chapter! I'm back in action, kind of. This will probably be the last chapter in this fic (possibly), but I'll have another couple fics in this series, so keep your eyes peeled!

“Right. So there’s one way this will end.” The burly boy stood across from Sherlock, arms crossed as his friend stood behind him.   
“With you pissing your pants, Donald? It won’t be new, you do it every night anyway.”   
A dangerous glint passed over Donald’s eye and his fists tightened imperceptibly on his biceps. He was fit, played rugby and football five times a week. Definitely one of his more challenging opponents. Sherlock smirked slightly as he watched Donald gear up for the fight.   
“You think I don’t know secrets too?” Donald asked snidely. He looked Sherlock up and down.  
“Pouf like you only has one friend. I wonder why that is? Maybe it’s because you’re a weirdo who doesn’t know how to talk like a normal person?”  
Sherlock didn’t bite. He had heard much of the same before and a small spark in his stomach was the only thing Sherlock felt. There was also a small rush of adrenaline, quickly building as Donald started to fidget more, waiting for an answer from Sherlock and not getting one.  
“Well, pouf? Got anything to say for yourself?”  
Sherlock just raised one eyebrow, his arms hanging loosely at his sides as he braced himself for a fight. They stood, facing each other for another minute and neither moving.  
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Sherlock asked tauntingly.   
“I’m waiting for you to say something.”  
“I just did.”  
“What, no defense? Not going to deny you’re a pouf?”  
“It’s not like anything I say will change your mind,” Sherlock drawled.  
“Try,” Donald barked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally figuring Donald out. He was the kind that like to hear his victims beg before he beat them up. Turning around, Sherlock started down the sidewalk that would lead him to his house. A vise-like grip wrapped around his arm, turning him and dragging him close.   
“No one walks away from me,” Donald growled, breath hot against Sherlock’s cheek.  
Sherlock leaned out of Donald’s personal space, bringing his other fist to connect heavily with the side of Donald’s head. Donald let go of Sherlock, stumbling a step back before aiming a punch right at Sherlock’s solar plexus. Sherlock deflected the blow, time seeming to slow as he pushed Donald’s fist to the right and landed his own punch at Donald’s solar plexus. Time snapped back into place as Donald doubled over, gasping for air like a fish out of water.  
While Donald was incapacitated, Sherlock grabbed his head in both hands and pushed down, forcing Donald to the ground. Just as he felt victory singing through him, Sherlock felt a pair of hands lift him up and throw him to the side. He landed heavily, turning onto his back and peering up at Donald’s muscle, who he had forgotten about. Sloppy. Time seemed to crawl once more as he watched the goon come at him, planting one knee beside Sherlock’s chest and grabbing the front of his shirt. He pulled his fist back and let it fly; Sherlock had just enough time to turn his head, the fist glancing by his eye and boxing his ear instead of landing square on his nose. Sherlock’s head snapped back with the force of the hit and time snapped back into focus once more. His hands flew to the hand wrapped in his shirt and scrabbled, trying to find purchase.  
“Get off,” he grunted, bending back one of the bully’s fingers. The brute let go, pulling back and yanking his hand out of Sherlock’s grasp. Sitting back on his haunches, the bully grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and slammed him into the concrete sidewalk underneath them. Sherlock’s world flickered out momentarily as he felt a dull thud resonate through his head. He lay back, trying to stop the world spinning as the bully got to his feet and spat beside him. With one final sneer, he stomped onto Sherlock’s left foot, bones grinding and crunching as Sherlock let out a pained cry. The bully stalked over to Donald, who had recovered and stood, and together they ran the opposite direction.   
Groaning, Sherlock curled over onto his side and took a deep breath through his nose, realizing it through his mouth. He tried to move his foot, taking stock. Definitely fractured, possibly broken. Hurt like hell. Head fuzzy, probable concussion. Swelling around the eye, but no discernable damage to ear. He was a couple of blocks from home and John was supposed to be coming over after rugby, which should have ended about twenty minutes ago. It usually took John about thirty minutes to walk to Sherlock’s house. Where was he? Should Sherlock wait for John? No. John wasn’t here, and he didn’t need John. He had gotten the upper hand without John today. For a moment anyway. If there had only been one, he would have won the fight.   
Letting out a half sigh half sob, Sherlock slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, bracing himself. He rolled onto his feet, wincing in pain as his weight rested momentarily on his injured foot. He immediately gravitated towards the wall of the nearest building, bracing his shoulder against it and slowly making his way towards home. Time blurred as he slowly put one foot in front of the other, intent on getting to the next step, and then the next, and so on, focusing on the movement of his feet. He was so focused on his own feet he didn’t hear the patter of another pair of feet come up behind him.  
“Sherlock? Hey! Why aren’t you home yet?” John’s voice distantly reached through the fog that had settled over Sherlock’s mind, and he stopped in his movement. He kept his back to John. “Sherlock?” At this point John drew even with Sherlock and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to see why Sherlock hadn’t acknowledged him. “Hey-“ they made eye contact. “ Did you- Another fight?”  
“Yup,” Sherlock responded, a sheen of sweat coating his unnaturally pale face.   
“Who was it this time?” John asked as he slung an arm around Sherlock’s back for support.   
“I don’t need your help,” Sherlock slurred, clumsily pushing john’s arm off and landing heavily against the wall at his back.   
“What? Of course you do, look at you! You’ve got a concussion, Sherlock! Among other injuries.”  
Sherlock pursed his lips at the confirmation of his concussion. “You weren’t there while I was fighting them. I didn’t need you then and I don’t need you now.” Resolutely Sherlock looked back at his feet and started trying to walk towards home once more. He had been walking for what seemed like years, he had to be close now.   
“Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!” John gently grabbed Sherlock’s arm, trying not to jerk him around but trying to stop him. “Just. Let me help you. You don’t have to like me right now, but just let me walk you home at least.” It was too much energy to argue, so Sherlock didn’t bother protesting when John wrapped his arm once more around Sherlock’s back. Plus, he managed to move a little faster when John was supporting him.   
“Almost there, Sherlock,” John encouraged as they continued steadily on their way. “Do you have an injured foot as well?”  
“Fracture, possible break,” Sherlock confirmed. John hummed sympathetically.  
“We’ll probably have to go to the hospital. We can’t really deal with breaks at home,” he said gently. “So who was it, anyway?”  
“Donald,” Sherlock grunted. They were nearing the house; Sherlock recognized the shrubs on the corner as his next-door neighbors.   
“Arse,” John grunted back. They reached the house and silently made their way up the walkway. John opened the door, leaving Sherlock to stand on his own for a moment.   
“Sherlock?” Greg called from inside.  
“Yeah, and me,” John answered back, helping Sherlock into the entrance hall and sitting him on the small bench situated there. “You need to come here.”  
“What’s up?” Greg asked as he rounded the corner, wiping his hands on a tea towel and slinging it over his shoulder. “What happened?” he asked as he rushed to Sherlock and crouched down to be at eye level with him. “Another fight.” It wasn’t a question.   
“Yeah, I wasn’t there,” John confirmed. “I found him trying to get home by leaning on the walls of buildings.”  
“Jesus,” Greg breathed. “We need to go to hospital,” he said decisively. “Sherlock, what’s my name?”  
“Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered, eyes going in and out of focus.   
“Do you know what day it is?”  
“Tuesday,” Sherlock answered, squinting a bit in concentration. It was not Tuesday.   
“Yup, definitely a concussion,” Greg confirmed.  
“Also, an injured foot and a black eye forming already.”  
“Yeah.” Greg leaned back from Sherlock. “Mycroft!” he called into the house. “Get down here!” They all heard his study door open and his measured steps down the stairs before they saw him enter the small hall.   
“Yes?” Mycroft took stock of the situation. “Hospital.” He said decisively, nodding at Greg. “I’ll grab my coat. You’ll drive?”  
“Yup.” They both moved, getting ready to load the other two boys into the car.  
“Do you want me to leave?” John asked quietly when they had a moment of privacy.   
Sherlock looked blearily at John for a moment before a small “no” passed his lips.   
“Okay,” John nodded, knowing they would need to eventually talk about Sherlock’s initial rejection of him but knowing that neither of them were in the right frame of mind at the moment. Instead, he sat beside Sherlock and slung his arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer and vowing silently to protect Sherlock, whatever it took.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, leave kudos and comments at your leisure!


End file.
